The dry, cool air clings to my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The sun peaks over the Tucson Catalina Mountains, rays of light dripping onto the ground.
I’m sitting on the pavement outside of the gray-blue Physical Education building. I hate PE, but then, I hate middle school, in general. I want to do anything but school. I want to go on adventures with dragons whose scales glisten in the moonlight and whose majestic wings carry me to Avalon. I want to live in an old castle and speak with the resident spirits there who will lead me through winding pathways and secret doors only to discover ancient treasure buried deep within its grounds. I want to slip into the sea and follow the siren’s beautiful voice (so long as I don’t die, of course).
I believe in fairy tales.
How can I not? There’s already so much magic in the world, why can’t they exist, too? I know magic exists, because I’ve seen it. I hear and speak with spirits. They’re from another world, but they still visit me. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is. So is it a stretch to believe in fairy tales, too? Of course not. I’m convinced every hero will escape their imprisonment and live happily ever after. Simple.
“Hey, Bethy, look at what I’ve written.” Lydia, one of my friends, walks up to me, handing me her large blue notebook, the spiral wire bent and coming undone from months of use. “It’s my fantasy novel,” she tells me.
The pages are full of ink markings, a kind of flowing tapestry of words. The endless pages of writing remind me of my own at home.
“I’m going to be the next Tamora Pierce!” Lydia adds in her thick, New Zealand accent, her eyes drifting off into a different kind of fantasy.
“That’s great!” I say, handing her back the notebook. I want to appear humble, so I don’t say anything, but while she may want to be a measly writer, I’m going to be a famous actress. It doesn’t even matter that I’ve never acted before. I’m thirteen. I’ve got tons of time.
“So, what are you doing?” she asks, glancing at the book in my hand.
“Reading Grimm’s Fairy Tales,” I answer, handing her my copy after dog-earing a tale on elves.
“Oh, that’s cool. I know all about this.”
“Yeah, well, I like to also write fairy tales in my free time,” I answer, yanking back the book.
“The stories are kind of dark after a while, though, aren’t they?”
I reluctantly admit, “Yeah, they kind of are.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“It’s the bell! Gotta go. See ya later,” Lydia says, scurrying off.
Why it’s called a bell when it beeps is beyond me, but I quickly shove the yellowed book into the recesses of my shimmering blue backpack before heading into PE.
I anxiously sit in my seat in my last class, Disability Resource. The sky is now full of dusty gray clouds brewing with precipitation and the previously dead air is thrashed with aggressive wind, rattling the classroom windows.
I feel a strong desire to drop my pencil and race outside to play in the oncoming rain. The other kids are similarly antsy, twitching in their seats.
To keep us from running out, the substitute teacher tries to teach us how to draw a dog using five rings on the whiteboard, but no one’s really paying any attention.
Eventually, the bell beeps and everyone stands up abruptly, racing outside. As I step onto the soil, I smell the thick scent of foliage and cacti thirstily awaiting the rain.
A few drops sink into my skin, and I giggle in glee.
Before I know it, wisps of a breeze flutter about me, and I feel her beside me as she asks, “Bethy, can you feel the rain?”
“Yes, of course,” I tell her, leaping where I stand.
After long, dry days of summer heat, winter rains in the Sonoran Desert come in powerful waves, releasing everyone who lives there from feeling trapped by the heat.
“I know, but can you feel it?” she clarifies, and I suddenly know what she means.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. There’s a change in the atmosphere. The air is potent with magic and spirits. For some reason, they like the rain. “I can sense them,” I tell her solemnly.
Sitting on a frozen cement bench in the student pick-up lot, I watch the magic surrounding me. The Catalina Mountains are now thick with it. Between their crevices is a gentle traveling mist. The crevices are the gateways to the otherworld. This is where you find dragons, but they only come out during a storm. They lie in the mist, waiting for those who believe to summon them.
Before I can respond, my mom’s champagne Toyota Camry with its dark tinted windows slides into the parking lot. “I have to go, but we can talk later,” I tell the invisible spirit by my side. She doesn’t have a name, though spirits sometimes do.
“Alright,” she answers gently before disappearing into the rain.
I race to my mother’s car and leap in the back seat, saying, “Hi, Mommy!”
“Listen, Bethy, your father just called. There’s a leak at one of our real estate properties. He’s been down there all day. When we work on homework, I want you to cooperate with me. I cannot handle a fight tonight. Mommy and Daddy are too stressed. Understand?”
“Yes, Mommy,” I promise.
As my mom tutors me on homework at our kitchen table, I behave like a good little girl, never fighting, never complaining. We’re working on history, and she helps me to write a paper about the American Civil War.
I hear the distant hum of my father’s ’62 Ford Falcon Ranchero chugging to a halt, as it usually does. Excitedly, I exclaim, “Daddy’s here!”
“I know. He better not disturb us while we’re doing homework,” she threatens.
Of course, that’s exactly what my dad does as he enters through the front door, sweaty and stained with grease.
“You are not coming into this house like that! I just cleaned the floor, and you know I can’t handle you tracking in grease,” my mother warns. She has OCD, and the slightest disturbance to the perfect house leaves her on edge.
“Yes, I am. I’m hungry. I’ve been working all day on the leak, and I still can’t figure out the problem.”
“You still haven’t figured it out?” my mother exasperates. “Robbie, what’s the matter with you? Most handymen would have solved the problem by now!”
“Yeah, I’d like to see you try!” my father responds, violently pushing past my mother.
I know it’s coming. I can feel it in the air. The dark tension pervading everything around it. But I’m always allured by it and can never look away.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been working with Bethy all day, and she can barely get the simplest things!”
“I can! I’m smart!” I defend myself from the insult.
“Oh please, Bethy,” my mother bites back at me, her face turning a murky red from her fury. She raises her hand to threaten me, as she scolds, “Just stay out of this! This is between your father and me.” I immediately shut up. If I don’t, she’ll shake me violently or pull my hair. Besides, I’m disturbingly fascinated by my parents’ escalating fight.
“You’re the one who brought her into it,” my father accuses.
“Bethy, go to your room,” my mother demands.
“No, she has a right to see what a lunatic of a mother she has.”
“Bethy, your father is abusive, and I don’t want you to see this. Get away from me, Robbie! I’m warning you!”
“Bethy, look at how crazy your mother is! They outta put her in an insane asylum! Or in a freak show!”
My mother grabs a chopping knife from off the counter and points it at my father. She’s far gone and lost all semblance of sanity. “I told you to get back! Get back, or I’m not responsible for what I’m about to do!” She shrieks in violent bursts, waving the knife towards him, the blade glimmering in the kitchen light.
I feel the tears sting my eyes before I feel the darkness permeating my heart and molding it into a heavy lump in my chest.
My father grabs a nearby kitchen chair and yells at my mother, “Put down that knife or I’ll throw this at your fucking head!”
I can’t watch this anymore. I’m too scared. I want to stop them because I love them, but I’m afraid I’ll get hurt.
I scurry out the back sliding glass door and race into the backyard, the remnants of the torn fabric of my emotions falling seamlessly apart. I’m crying, and I can’t stop the tears. I’m in so much pain. Can anyone even help me?
A dove chirps in the distance, and I can sense her sitting on the large orange-white rock to my right. She comes up to me and strokes my hair, lovingly, while whispering in my ear, “Everything will be all right.”
She helps me to calm my frantic heart and stop the tears. I manage, “I was just so scared. I have to get out of here. I need to get away from my evil parents. When will a prince find me? Or when will I become famous? I will, won’t I? So I can leave here. I don’t have to stay, right? I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”
She doesn’t answer my questions but just runs her fingers through my hair and whispers again, “Everything will be all right.”
“Bethy?” My mother’s voice is in tears.
I look towards the spirit, my eyes wide and glossy with fear. She tells me gently, “It’s all right. She’s calm now. You can speak with her.”
“Yes, mom?” I ask, as the spirit resumes her position on a rock, observing the conversation with my mother unfold.
“Your dad just went for a drive to calm down. I’m so sorry you had to witness that.” She tries to embrace me, but I pull away. I don’t fully trust her. “You’re not afraid of me, are you? Please don’t be afraid of me. I love you, honey. I’m so sorry.” She takes off her glasses and wipes her tears away on her oversized red cotton shirt before placing them back on her head to observe me, her little daughter, terrified and timid.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” I tell her, feeling bad for her. I overcome my fear and embrace her in a hug, attempting to console her. I repeat, “Everything will be all right.”
“It’s my father. He sometimes comes out in me. You know what my father used to do, Bethy? He used to take a belt or a tree branch, and he’d whip my brother and me. Then, he used to pull down my pants to spank me, but he’d look up inside me, instead.”
I shake my head in horror and look away. I can’t listen to this. Why is she telling me this? I don’t want to hear it, but my mother continues, “At least, I did a lot better than that. I may have slapped you, shamed you, and pulled your hair, but I have never whipped you. And I made sure I married a man who would never sexually molest you.” She emphasizes each word with conviction, but then her voice cracks. “But your father rages just like he did, but so do I, so aren’t we a pair? I’m sorry you got stuck with such a dysfunctional family, Bethy.”
I don’t even know what to say. My hands tremble from what my mother just told me. I’m still in shock. I don’t want to think of my father like the monster that was hers. I love him, but I also love my mother. I’m torn between them, and I just want all the pain and anger to disappear, forever.
“You know, I used to want to be an actress,” she admits and I look up, surprised. She wanted to be a famous actress, too?
“My great uncle, Ray Walston, was a famous actor, so I thought I could make it. But, I ended up marrying a man and becoming a housewife, instead. I mean, I wouldn’t trade being a stay-at-home mom for anything in the world, but I do regret giving up on my dreams. At the time I married, I just felt like there weren’t any better opportunities for me than your father. And I was so used to the rage and the violence, that when your dad and I did it, it felt familiar. I mean, believe me, I love your dad, but…,” she trails off, staring into the distance, to faded hopes and forgotten memories.
I’m terrified by what she just told me. I’m terrified that it means I’ll end up just like her, all these fairy tale dreams crushed by the reality, by the cycle of abuse.
As if reading my mind, she adds, “Life’s not a fairy tale, Bethy. It’s full of suffering, and if you really want something, you have to fight for it. You have to be strong enough to escape the cycle. I really hope you can.” She kisses me on the top of my head before heading back inside.
I’m silently watching the spot where my mother just left, brooding over her words, wondering if they truly are applicable to me.
“Are you all right?” the spirit asks beside me.
“I don’t know.” My voice comes out dead and beaten.
“You are not bound by circumstance. You have the ability to escape your situation,” she tries to soothe me, but it’s not helping.
“But I am! What if I can never leave this? What if I don’t make it famous? What if I am trapped here forever? I don’t want to live like this! Are all my fairy tales just lies?” My voice is cracking, and there is panic gilding my eyes with tears.
“Fairy tales are fairy tales for a reason. They are not real in this world, because they serve a different purpose.”
“What’s that?”
“To give people hope.”
“False hope!”
“No, not necessarily. Just like the characters in your stories, you too can escape one day, but there will always be a struggle. But if you fight for your dreams and you strive to succeed, maybe you won’t be famous, but you’ll escape, and the cycle won’t continue.”
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
“You are. You always have been and you always will be. And I will always be here to guide you. You won’t do this alone.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, feeling comforted by her words and presence.
I can sense her tilt her head, as if listening to something. “I am wanted about the earth to help reign in winter. But I will visit you, again.” She kisses the top of my head and then disappears into the mist.
I breathe in deeply, knowing I have to be strong.
As I raise my chin up, I see the storm has returned, this time with vile anger, roaring across the mountains. A small gray dove quickly flies, thrusting its wings to race against the violent tempest, and eventually, with energy and a struggle, it succeeds, escaping the storm and landing in the safe haven of a nest buried in the crook of a mesquite bough.
After graduating with an English degree in literature and creative writing, Bethy Wernert spends her time in Southern Arizona writing memoirs and short stories. While not writing, she likes to drink tea and stare at the vivid sunsets in her hometown.